


The Hard Part

by MonsterTesk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deaf/HOH character, Disability, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've decided to choose," Stiles says abruptly. This is characteristic of all conversations Stiles starts with Chris. </p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hard Part

**Author's Note:**

> I would like it to be known that I have very little true understanding of being deaf/HOH and that if any of this is inaccurate, please alert me so that I may fix it.
> 
>  
> 
> Also please don't expect greatness. I wrote this during breaks at work. I'm basically only posting it to get back into the habit of posting stuff regularly.

"Can you lift your arm?" 

Stiles stares at his mouth while Chris talks like it's a puzzle that needs to be solved. There's a lag of a few seconds and then Stiles shrugs and lifts his arm. 

Chris prods and rubs at Stiles' arm where Scott had bit the nogitsune. So far all was good. 

"Everything seems fine but keep an eye out for anything off going on with your body for a while." 

Stiles frowns. 

"What?" 

Chris repeats himself. The confused expression stays. He repeats himself again. Then two more times. He sighs. 

"I'm two feet away, why can't you hear me?" 

Stiles bites his lip. It looks strange in the florescent light of Chris' kitchen. Chris wonders when the others will arrive, will finish giving their false statements to the police and head over. 

"One of my hearing aides fell out and I think the other is on the fritz. All I can hear is buzzing," Stiles says in a quiet voice. 

Chris takes a step back. 

"You're– you don't wear hearing aides." 

Stiles shakes his head. 

"Yeah. Lip reading is way too hard. Can you, like, write what you said down or something? At least until Scott gets here." 

Chris does. It takes him a few minutes to find paper and pen but he does. After that Stiles pulls something tiny and plastic out of his ear, fidgets with it briefly, puts it back, then sighs. 

"I think I broke it," he says in a mournful voice then takes it back out. The device disappears into his pocket. 

They sit in silence at the kitchen table for half an hour, Stiles' fingers moving quickly across his phone. 

Chris can't stop staring at Stiles' ears. Can he really not hear? And if that's the case why doesn't Chris just sign at him? Back in college he used to volunteer as an interpreter for the Deaf/HOH. It's been a while since he had to use it and he'd be rusty but he must remember some of it. He does not in any form remark to himself that Stiles' ears are actually kind of cute in an awkward too big for his head way. 

Scott arrives just when Chris is about to reach out and wave in Stiles' line of sight to get his attention. 

The boy taps Stiles' shoulder with his left, right hand curled into a fist. 

When Stiles turns relief that Chris can nearly taste is written across his face. 

"Did you find it?"

Scott nods, frown on his face, and opens his hand. The twin to the little device Stiles pulled from his ear is there. In pieces. Stiles slumps. Scott sets it down on the table. 

"I'm–" Scott starts then signs the rest. Chris thinks he says that he's sorry and that D-something that looks like badge- knows and will make an appointment? 

Chris is rustier than he thought. 

"Great," Stiles says. "What an awesome middle to the shitfest that's my life." 

Scott hugs him. Stiles returns it, a small unhappy frown on his face. 

"Do you want to go home," Scott asks in a quiet voice when he pulls back, making the corresponding gestures. 

Stiles shrugs. Scott pulls him up by the arm then turns to Chris. 

"Thanks for watching him. I got it from here." 

Chris nods and watches them leave. He spends a few more minutes staring at the forgotten plastic on his kitchen table then stands with a big breath. He's got a lot to do and thinking about Stiles' situation is not one of them. 

 

The next time he sees Stiles is at the mechanic's shop in town. The mechanic is practically shouting at Stiles and Stiles has this defeated look on his face, hands balled into fists as he stares at the man's lips. 

"YOUR CAR NEEDS A NEW _TRANSMISSION_!" The man shouts and Stiles shakes his head. It's been two days and everything is still up in the air. Chris finishes parking his SUV where the service guy told him to then gets out. 

He thinks, briefly, that he should help but doesn't. Maybe that makes him a bad person. 

 

Five minutes and a lot of yelling later, Stiles sits down next to him in the waiting room. 

Chris texts him. 

[No new hearing aides?] 

Stiles' phone vibrates. 

He pulls it out, looks at Chris. 

"Doctor didn't have any on hand. He's ordered some but it's going to take like a week for them to come in."

His voice is soft, frown easily heard in it. 

Chris leaves him alone after that. 

 

The problem is that it becomes a Thing. Somehow every time there's a problem, some, as Stiles would say, big bad of the week, there comes a point where Stiles' hearing aides are lost or stop working. 

One memorable time, it's not what they're fighting but Derek bopping Stiles upside the head. The plastic flies out of Stiles' head, ricochets off the railing to the fire escape they're hiding on then swiftly tumbles down, presumably landing in the dumpster six floors below. 

Everyone stands there, eyes wide, mouths open, until Stiles gives a big gusty sigh and pulls something bigger that looks like an old 90's com system out of his pocket. He wraps it around his ear and shoves a piece of it inside. For the rest of the day he refuses to talk to Derek, going so far as to sign at Scott or–surprisingly – Lydia instead.

That's when Chris finds out that Stiles refers to Derek as something that looks like Bad Taste Dog. 

 

But it gets gradually worse. Even when he has his hearing aides intact, sometimes Stiles still needs someone to repeat what they said or talk louder. Chris can't help but notice the frequency of this increasing as time goes by. It worries him but there are other things, important things, that require his immediate attention every time he thinks to ask about it. 

Aside from that, everything is much the same in that it's never the same; never dull. The beacon of the tree still draws an assortment of less-than-friendly beings to them, all of their lives are still regularly endangered, and Stiles continues to be loud-mouthed and snotty. 

Chris has the added benefit of watching Stiles and Derek argue since Scott and him have seemed to have permanently teamed up with Derek. 

Now when Stiles gets frustrated or especially angry at the young man, he switches to sign language interjected with odd verbal insults. Usually this ends the fight. Particularly when Stiles, seemingly absolutely done listening to Derek, removes his hearing aides and refuses to speak for the rest of the evening in anything but sign language. 

 

Chris doesn't mind this. Without the teens knowing he at least has a working understanding of it, he can listen in, as it is, to what otherwise would be private conversations. 

 

This is how he finds out that Stiles refers to him as "Sea-D.I.L.F." Whatever that means. He tried to google it but that just turned up images of men in his age bracket on the beach. 

 

Until his cover is blown. It's really not his fault, he just couldn't help but laugh at what Stiles had been telling Scott. 

Derek and Stiles were arguing again. This time about trapping one of the selkies that had moved into a cove near Beacon Hills. Chris can't remember who was for or against it, simply that at the argument's end, Stiles ripped out his hearing aides, shoved them into his pocket, and turned to Scott. 

'You can tell that asshole I'm not listening to him until he gets his proctologist to remove his head from his ass' is what Stiles said and Chris— Chris just lost it. 

Absolutely uncontrollable laughter exploded out of him to the point that when it did stop, everyone was staring at him. 

"What?" Chris had asked the group, kind of unrepentant. He doesn't regret it; he hasn't laughed like that since Alli– since before. He knew even then that it wasn't all that funny but it made him laugh and that felt... Good. 

Stiles gives him a weird look then maintains said look for the rest of the night. 

 

After that, Chris starts getting paired with Stiles more. In part because he can communicate with him and in part, he's sure, because Scott feels better when Stiles is with him. Most likely because Chris prefers long-range weapons and is less likely to wade into a fray if he can sort it out from a distance. 

 

Chris is fine with this. He is. Except. Except Stiles is funny, sincere, and when he makes the gesture he came up with to refer to Chris (not the Sea-D.I.L.F. one but another, making Chris to believe that the original one has some sort of meaning Stiles doesn't want him to know) he makes a C then a finger gun and when his finger flicks back on imagined recoil, Chris' heart does a weird thing he doesn't want to think about. 

 

And then– and then he finally finds a moment to ask about Stiles needing him to repeat more often. 

 

"It's degenerative. Some weird birth thing. The doctor says I'm lucky the hearing aides have worked this far but eventually– soon– I'll lose that, too." 

Chris doesn't know what to say to this, how he could possibly show his sympathy or truly grasp it. Before he can find the right thing to say- if such a thing exists- Stiles smiles softly, sadly, and signs, 'I don't know what the last thing I'll here is. I want it to be something good. Something to remember when things are bad but–' 

Chris grabs his hands, holds them tight. 

"But for now, you can listen." 

Stiles' eyes go wide, lips part. 

"What if the last thing I hear is awful?" He whispers, hardly loud enough for Chris to hear. 

He has absolutely no answer to that. Life tends to be cruel and hard but Chris knows that's not what Stiles needs to hear. 

 

Days go by. Then weeks. Then months. It's been nearly a year since Chris found out Stiles was HOH and, as life is want to do, much and very little has changed. The big bads of the week keep coming, Stiles becomes Chris' sort of sidekick, Derek and Stiles still fight like they were born to do little else, Scott continues to be hopelessly optimistic, Lydia is wonderfully intelligent and coming into her power like the most rare of individuals, and Chris... Chris is still just there for them all if nothing else. He thinks Allison would be glad he is but its not like he can ask her. She is less sensible to his late night questions than Stiles when his hearing aides don't work. 

There are lulls in the constant struggles and fighting but today is not one of them. 

Derek, Scott, Isaac, Chris, and Stiles are following a tranced out Lydia through the woods, barely keeping up with this ghost of a figure gliding through the mist and trees like they're nothing to her. 

Chris has taken up the rear, within sight line of the three wolves but far enough away that should they encounter trouble the range of efficacy of his rifle is not lost, Stiles beside him. 

"I've decided to choose," Stiles says, abruptly. This is characteristic of all conversations Stiles starts with Chris. 

"What?" Chris asks, sliding his eyes away from Derek's tensing shoulders to Stiles. 

"What're you deaf?" Stiles retorts, that ironic smile on his face. 

Chris' eyes dart forward in time to see Derek look back over his shoulder. 

Stiles opens his mouth, glances at the men in front of them, then compresses his lips into a thin line. 

'To choose what the last thing I hear is. I want, I guess, I want it to be my choice,' Stiles signs. 

Chris slows to follow his hands' movement. 

‘What's it going to be?’ 

"I don't know. I guess–" Stiles stops himself, fingers twitching wildly before he flails, having missed seeing the branch in his path. Chris does not reach out to help, having experienced Stiles' coltish awkwardness enough to know he'll right himself. 

'I want it to be something good, something to remember.' 

'But what?' Chris asks clumsily, one hand still on his rifle. 

Stiles brushes his hands down his sides. 

'I guess I'll know it when I hear it,' he tells Chris with a sheepish grin. 'I just figure I can't control that it'll happen but I can decide _when_.' 

Chris nods, maybe a little in admiration of Stiles' decision. It's an effective way to regain some power over the situation; he can respect that. 

 

They find a mass grave that day with bones that look older than Chris. There are signs around it. The area has received recent traffic, the newest body not more than a few days old. But no clue as to who or what is bringing these bodies here, piling them up, and burning them over and over again. 

'Is burnt offerings too obvious?' Stiles asks, eyes on Chris. 

Chris shrugs. 

'Sometimes the obvious thing is the right thing,' he signs back. 

Derek sighs, long and gusty. 

"Will you two use your words?" 

Stiles grins, signs at him that he is. Chris smiles. 

"What?" Derek asks, waspish. 

Chris shrugs. 

"He has a point." 

"And that would be?" 

"Just because you can't hear it doesn't mean I'm not using my words," Stiles cuts in before Chris can say anything. 

Derek clamps his mouth shut and glares. 

'Screw him,' Stiles signs. 

'I'd rather a pinecone.' 

Stiles laughs.  

'Coniferous or deciduous?' 

'I'm not picky.' 

"You know I can understand what you two're saying, right?" Scott shouts. Chris looks over at him, not sure if he should be sorry. 

"Ooh," Isaac says, a small smirk growing on his face. "What're they saying?" 

Scott bites his lip and flushes, shaking his head. 

"Don't be a spoil sport, share with the class,” Erica cuts in, smirking, with her arm around Boyd.

'Do it,' Stiles signs at Scott. 'Tell them we're talking about fucking pinecones.' 

Scott's eyebrows furrow. 

'I'm not saying that.' 

'Why not? It'd be funny.' 

'You do it.' 

'No, you.' 

'It won't help anything.' 

'You're not helping my love of pinecones.' 

"Stiles, no." 

'Ours is a forbidden love.' 

"OH MY GOD IM NOT TALKING TO YOU." 

Stiles cracks up so hard that he's unable to stand by the end of it. Maybe it's not the best place to be laughing but Chris is no expert on that.  

 

More time passes much the same way. They find the thing collecting bodies and burning them. They solve the mystery of the week after that. And after that and after that... 

Stiles and Derek still get into fights regularly. Stiles usually wins save for the few instances that Derek muscles out on top. Once, literally. Scott keeps being ridiculously kind, Lydia grows more powerful with each passing month, Isaac, well, Isaac has a lot to work through but Chris can tell he's trying. Erica and Boyd seem to be the only two with their shit together and Chris admires them for it.

 

And then... Chris is in his living room, sitting down to enjoy a few moments of peace when his doorbell goes off quickly followed by fast, urgent knocks on his door. 

Wary of what could be waiting on the other side, Chris is slow down the hall, automatically picking up a handgun from the table in the hall. 

He holds the gun so it will be blocked by his thigh and slowly opens the door. 

Stiles slides inside, stumbles, then straightens. 

"Stiles, what–" 

"I figured it out," Stiles says, breathless, grinning. 

Chris frowns. 

"Figured what out?" 

"What it's going to– woah. Nice gun. Is that a P-tek? I thought you'd go for something bigger, more manly." 

Chris nods, moving to set it on the table. 

"What'd you figure out?” Chris asks, ignoring the remark on his gun.

Stiles stalls, fingers twitching around air as his arms bend and unbend, grin blinking back into existence. 

"What I want my last sound to be," he tells Chris then ducks his head, grin softening. 

"Yeah?" 

Stiles nods, shuffles. 

"I want... Iwantittobeyou." 

Chris blinks, unsure if Stiles was actually speaking English there. 

"Once more. And slower this time." 

Stiles takes a big breath and a step closer. 

"I want it to be you. To be your voice." 

Chris' heart stutters to a stop along with the rest of him. He's not sure– he couldn't have heard that right. 

"Me?" 

Stiles nods, reaches out, pauses, fingers curled. 

"Yeah. Your voice." 

"Wh-why?" 

Chris doesn't know what to do with this. Which, really, when it comes to Stiles isn't news. 

"Because you're kind and funny and smart and you make me smile and I want to keep that. Forever." 

Chris may be having palpitations. 

"Wouldn't you rather it be your dad? Or Scott?" He pauses, licks his lips. "...Lydia?" 

Stiles shakes his head. 

"You. I want it to be you." 

"But I'm- you can't mean it." 

Stiles nods, frowning. 

"I do." 

Chris is still for a long time trying to process this. Stiles stares at him, gradually getting twitchier the more he waits. 

"OK," Chris says, quiet. "OK." Then, "It's not like it'll be the first time I'm the last thing someone hears." 

Stiles laughs, wriggles in joy, then hugs him. 

Chris closes his eyes, arms wrapping around Stiles. He can't help but feel like he's doing something wrong. Or maybe for not quite the right reasons. 

But Stiles is warm and his arms are the perfect amount of pressure applied to his ribs and he smells... Stiles smells so good. 

 

It doesn't happen that night or the next day. Weeks pass without Stiles taking his hearing aides out for that final time. Stiles keeps coming over at odd hours though. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they silently read in the same room, sometimes Chris sits at one end of the dining table cleaning his guns while Stiles does schoolwork, sometimes they end up sitting on the couch together watching TV with the sound off and subtitles on. 

Once Chris gives Stiles a thumb drive copy of his bestiary. Stiles gets this big smile on his face when Chris does this. It makes Chris' stomach so weird things. 

The same weird things it does when Stiles touches his arm, ruffles his hair, or hugs him. 

 

Everything is fine. Everything is the same until the sleepover. 

 

There's something going after them. It's giving them horrible nightmares, attacking people in their sleep. As a safety measure, they all decide to sleep together. 

Scott decides that Chris' apartment is the most suitable for this. 

Derek, Isaac, and Stiles take the living room, Lydia and Scott in Alli— in the spare room, and Chris in his own bed alone. 

Chris gets woken in the middle of the night by someone coming into his room. 

He turns on his nightstand light and looks to the door. 

Stiles stands there in his pajama pants and T-shirt. 

'What's going on?' 

Stiles bites his lip, tucks the pillow he brought from home under his armpit. 

'I can't sleep.' 

Chris frowns, rubs at his face. 

'Why not?' 

Stiles shrugs, shuffles farther into the room. 

'Derek keeps kicking me in his sleep.' 

Chris stares at Stiles, not sure how he can help. 

'Can I sleep with you?' 

Chris stops breathing briefly, his heart going either too slow or too fast for him to feel at that. 

'Why would you want–' 

'Please? Lydia and Scott take up their whole bed, Erica and Boyd are doing gross things, Isaac has stolen the couch, and Derek is terrible.' 

"OK," Chris says, hoping the roughness of his voice can be passed off as sleepiness. 

Stiles grins, shuts the door behind him, and crawls onto the unoccupied half of Chris' bed. 

"Thank you," Stiles says, voice quiet as Chris pulls the covers over the both of them. 

"Don't mention it," Chris replies, hoping he's not doing something wrong. 

He can't get to sleep after that for a long time, hyper-aware of the other occupant of the bed. 

This is how he finds out that Stiles talks in his sleep. 

"Mmm'yeah," he mutters, wriggling lightly on the bed. "Like that." 

Chris lays as still as he can, fingers digging into the mattress at his sides. 

"Y'like that, don't you?" Stiles accuses. 

Chris' heart does weird things and his tummy won't settle until Stiles quiets down, stills, and rolls over so he's facing away from Chris. 

He eventually does fall asleep, laying on his side, staring at Stiles' back as he sleeps, resisting the urge to pull the young man close. 

 

Chris wakes up with his face pressed into something soft and prickly, arms around a warm body. The body wriggles. Chris hums to himself and presses closer, still mostly in the land of dreams. Whoever it is breathes in deep, wriggles against parts of Chris that are already interested in the preceding. Chris presses his face into the hair in front of him, tightens his arms, and drifts back off to sleep. 

He dreams of something he prefers to not think of when he wakes up again, still pressed into the body in front of him. 

Whoever it is is breathing these short, unsteady breathes, fingers wrapped around Chris' wrists, holding them against their stomach. Chris ruts closer, hands sliding down. 

The body gasps, going still then shuddering, arching a little, ass pressing into Chris. 

It feels nice; sleep warm, and still foggy, Chris can't help but to enjoy the sensation of a person pressed close to him. 

Until he remembers who he went to bed with the night before. He goes still, stiff, one traitorous appendage twitching in interest. 

Chris pushes himself away, now fully awake. Stiles scrambles off the bed, dragging his pillow with him. He stands at the side of the bed, eyes probably as wide as Chris', pillow clutched against his stomach. They're both breathing hard. 

Stiles' eyes flick down Chris' body then back up to his face. Chris can feel his cheeks heat up and hopes that the blanket covers up what other parts of him may still be reacting to what had just happened. 

Stiles flushes. 

"I'mgonnagotothebathroom," Stiles blurts out and flees from the room. 

Chris flops onto his back and covers his face with both hands. 

An image of Stiles standing in Chris' bathroom, still flushed, as he reaches into his pajama pants shoves its way into Chris' mind. 

Fuck. 

He's a pervert. That's the only explanation. Chris is a pervert. 

He lays in bed until... Things subside then stands, dresses in jeans, a T-shirt, puts his gun into a clip-on holster and tucks it into the back of his pants. 

When he leaves his room, Stiles is still in the bathroom and Derek gives him a weird look from where he's perched on Chris' counter. 

Chris swats the man's thigh. 

"Get off," he snaps as he passes to the coffee machine. 

"I'm sure you want to," Derek mutters, sliding off the counter. 

Chris doesn't respond, hopes that his body doesn't betray him twice in the same hour. 

 

After that, things don't change much. As if they ever do. Except... Except Stiles becomes careful around him, hesitates for these micro-moments before touching Chris, sits a little farther away than he used to, makes less inappropriate jokes, and sometimes falls into these silent moods where he doesn't talk, just looks at Chris with this introspective expression. 

Chris can't stand it, hates that he ruined the friendship they had going. Now when Stiles is around, Chris' stomach gets all twisted up, unable to stop imagining the feel of Stiles in bed with him. 

The sensation of Stiles shuddering against Chris becomes a constant in Chris' late night thoughts no matter how hard he tries to not think of it. 

They're sitting on the couch, Stiles has his laptop hooked up to the TV and they're playing the YouTube rabbit hole game where they start one video from the home page then click the first suggestion to play the next one. They've been doing this for an hour now when the video comes up. The title seemed innocent enough. It starts out slow, just a slice of life video on a video relay operator until it's not. Until the number is dialed and the phone sex operator picks up. Then they're laughing for eight solid minutes at the situation the poor girl is in. They both get quiet though. In the last few minutes of the video, watching the two actors on the screen connect so easily. It kind of makes Chris jealous. 

They sit in silence when the video ends. Stiles takes a big breath and exits the screen. 

"I should- I should go," Stiles says, voice quiet. Stiles starts to stand. 

Chris reaches out, grabs Stiles' shoulder. Stiles stiffens. 

"You don't have to." 

"What?" 

Chris pulls his hand back slowly. 

'You don't have to leave.' 

"I should though. I should- I should go." 

Chris frowns, not wanting Stiles to leave when they were having such a good evening. 

'I'll order pizza.' 

Stiles shakes his head and stands. 

"I need to leave." 

Chris stares up at Stiles and frowns. 

'Why?' 

Stiles shakes his head. 

"Stiles," 'Why? Why do you need to leave?' 

Stiles twists his torso, fingers flicking like a turn signal. He shakes his head. 

"I have to." 

His voice is quiet, sad. 

'Did I- what's wrong?' 

Stiles bites his lip, eyes zigzagging around Chris. 

"Nothing's wrong." 

"It doesn't seem that way..." 

Stiles sighs, gathers his things quietly and hurries out of the room. Chris follows, angry. 

He grabs Stiles' arm a few feet from the door. Stiles halts. 

"Let go." 

Chris does. 

"Just tell me what's wrong." 

Stiles shakes his head. 

"I can help." 

He shakes his head again. 

Chris clenches his hands into useless fists at his sides. He feels like he's losing him, losing his only friend, if he lets Stiles leave. 

"Stiles, please." 

Another head shake. 

"Did I– did I do something wrong?" 

A stronger head shake. 

"Then let me help you." 

"You can't." 

Chris shuffles around Stiles but Stiles turns away. 

"Why can't I help?" 

"Because I want to kiss you!" 

The room echos with Stiles' shout. Chris is frozen, unable to compute what Stiles said into something understandable. Stiles' chest heaves. He sighs. 

"St–" 

And then Stiles is gone. 

Chris is alone. 

For weeks. 

With nothing but Stiles' declaration echoing through his mind. 

 

Nothing happens until it does. 

It's just an omega. 

It gets lucky. 

Claws zigging into Chris' zag. 

The thing is feral. 

He puts it down. 

He gets home. Still alone. He sends out a mass text in the group chat Stiles started months ago about what happened just in case. 

He cleans the wound, three little jagged claw marks on his side with little effort, sits down on his couch and closes his eyes. 

He wakes to banging at his door. 

Chris is up and heading to the door, gun out, before he figures out who's there, who's yelling his name. 

He barely manages to get the door open before Stiles is on him, hands twitching across Chris' chest, foot kicking the door shut behind him. 

"Are you alright. Are you – are you hurt?" 

Chris grabs Stiles' wrists to still him before the young man starts to pull at the bandage he placed over his wounds. 

"Stiles, I'm fine. It's just a few scratches." 

Stiles whines and slumps, head landing on Chris' shoulder, arms gently wrapping around him. 

Chris' arms stutter for a few moments, waffling in the air before he returns the hug, breath held. 

Silence. 

Stillness 

Stiles presses closer. 

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" 

Chris blinks. 

"You called me?" He asks, speaking at a normal volume right into Stiles' ear. 

Stiles nods, grip tightening. 

Chris pulls his phone out of his pocket. Eleven missed calls. Fourteen unanswered texts. It's still on do not disturb. 

"Forgot to turn the ringer back on." 

Stiles stiffens. 

"What?" 

"The ringer was off." 

Stiles pulls back, stares down at Chris' phone. 

"Seriously?" Chris nods. 

Stiles takes a step back, hand coming up to cover his own mouth. Then it falls away and he's laughing. 

"I thought- I thought you were dead or like seriously injured!" He manages to blurt out in between laughing. "Oh my god. Oh my god." 

Chris is breathless, watching Stiles smile and laugh. It's... He's beautiful. Chris ends up smiling, too, unable not to at the sight before him. 

"What're you smiling for? You ass! I thought you were in grave peril!" 

Chris shakes his head, letting Stiles shove at him even though it aggravates his injury. Eventually, he's pushed back nearly to the wall. He catches up Stiles' hands to stop him from shoving anymore and– they both pause. Stiles stops laughing, the smile leaves his face. 

"Hold still. I'm going to do something ill-advised," Stiles murmurs. 

There's lips on his before Chris can say anything, sliding softly against his. He doesn't do anything for about three seconds, long enough for Stiles to pull back. 

"I'm sorr–" Is as far as Stiles gets before Chris' brain catches up. He crushes his lips against Stiles', hands letting go of Stiles' to bunch the young man's shirt up. 

Stiles whines this soft little noise then Chris is shoved against the wall and yes. Oh, so much yes. 

Stiles' mouth is just as frantic as his, there are hands groping his ass, pulling him closer as Stiles near-tackles him against the wall again and again. When the kiss breaks, Chris makes a noise he'd rather not name but then Stiles' mouth is sliding down his jaw, latching on to the sensitive underside and he can do little else but cling to Stiles and continue to make that noise. 

Especially when Stiles lets go of his ass to fumble with Chris' belt and zipper. 

"I've wanted- jesus- I've wanted to do this for so long," Stiles mutters before licking a stripe up Chris' neck. "God, you taste so good." 

His hands are back on Chris' ass except without his jeans in the way, those strong fingers digging in. The only word Chris has for the way he moves against Stiles is writhe. 

"Makes me wonder if all of you tastes this good..." 

Then Stiles' fingers are sliding along the crack of his ass and Chris can't help but shudder at the implication. 

"St-Stiles," is all he can manage to get out. 

"That's good too. Do that again," Stiles says then runs his flat tongue over Chris' peck and Chris is ready, absolutely prepared down to his soul, to be fucked against a wall by a teenager when Stiles flashes him a grin and drops to his knees, yanking Chris' jeans the rest of the way off. Chris barely manages to be thankful he took his shoes off when he got home before Stiles is sliding his tongue slow and firm along Chris' dick. Chris can do nothing more than breath and shake. 

"Look, ma! No hands," Stiles chirps and, Jesus, swallows him whole, hands cupping Chris' ass. 

Chris literally goes so weak in the knees at the sensation that he collapses with a yelp and flailing hands. 

Stiles simply laughs and crawls over Chris, periodically swooping down to lick along random stretches of skin until he reaches Chris' mouth. 

"Do I turn you on that much?" Stiles whispers.

The kiss is deep and dirty. Chris hopes that it conveys his profound and emphatic yes to its full extent. When they part, Chris lets his head fall back against the floor, panting hard. 

"Fuck me," he murmurs, more out of disbelief and surprise at the situation than anything else. 

"Gladly!" Stiles chirps. 

Chris goes still, licks his lips. 

"What?" 

"I've got lube in the bedroom." 

Stiles grins. 

"Race you there?" 

Before Chris can respond, Stiles is up and running. 

"No fair!" Chris shouts, kicking his legs the rest of the way out of his jeans then scrambling after Stiles. 

His sprint comes to a complete stop in the door to his bedroom, grin sliding off his face. 

Stiles' shirt is already on the floor, hands working at opening his jeans. 

Stiles looks up. 

"You gonna help me or what?" He says, cocking his hips, arms akimbo. 

Chris takes the last few steps towards him and drops to his knees.

Stiles breathes in deep. 

 

 

 

In the morning, Chris wakes alone, aching, and warm. The room is limned yellow from sunrise, birds chirp, and cars drive past. 

There's this drop in his gut when he remembers he didn't go to bed alone, a filling hollowness that sits heavy where Stiles had stuck his tongue in his belly button and made Chris laugh. He notices, without real thought into it, that Stiles left his hearing aides on the nightstand next to Chris' gun. 

He doesn't sigh, he doesn't frown; he accepts with the same passivity he's accepted all turns in his life. 

And then– 

And then someone cusses loudly followed by banging that sounds like his cookware has fallen. 

Chris sits up quickly, heads out of the room undressed save the P-Tek comfortably in his hand. 

He finds Stiles in the kitchen, morosely crouched next to an avalanche of pots and pans. Chris watches for a few seconds, disbelief is a palatable sensation heavy on his tongue. 

Eventually, Stiles looks up. 

"I woke you, didn't I?" 

His tongue is too heavy to answer, his gun is too much of an impediment to sign. 

Stiles looks at him. Chris looks back. 

"I didn't–" Chris pauses to clear his throat. "I didn't think you'd still be here." 

Stiles shakes his head and taps his ear, his signal for he didn't understand Chris. 

Chris can't bring himself to sign his words. He can't. 

Stiles frowns, looks from Chris to the gun and down at the cookware on the floor. 

"Was I– was I not supposed to be here when you woke?" 

Much like the sound of his cookware hitting the ground, Stiles' words jolt Chris as if he is waking. 

"No, no!" Chris exclaims and kneels next to the pans. "I'm glad you stayed, Stiles. I just–" 

Chris rolls his eyes at himself, realizing Stiles still probably can't understand him. He sets the gun in a skillet and tries again. 

'I'm just surprised.'

Stiles squints at him. 

"Surprised about what?" 

Chris shrugs, pushing a saucepan out of the way so he can scoot closer to Stiles. He doesn't know how to express it- whatever it is- that he's surprised about. He can't put it in his hands and hand it to Stiles. He doesn't think he has the skill, even, to do so. 

Stiles slumps, worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. 

"You weren't expecting me to stay." 

Chris shakes his head, "no," but it's a lie; he wasn't expecting Stiles, he didn't really see any of this coming, and he especially wasn't expecting to wake up one morning having slept with a teenage boy who thinks Star Wars is the epitome of cinematic mastery. 

He reaches for Stiles but the young man pushes him away. 

"Don't lie to me," Stiles hisses. "You thought I was an intruder. Your gun is. right. There." 

Chris sits back on his heels, stumped because Stiles is right. Then again, Stiles is quite often right; he's far too observant for such a young age. 

'You're right,' Chris tells him. 'I didn't expect you to be here but–'

"But what?"

Chris leans forward again, puts his mouth right next to Stiles' ear and says as clear as he can, "I had hoped you would be." 

He leans back and waits, watches Stiles parse the words spoken with a frown on his face. 

"Say that again." 

Chris does. 

Stiles shakes his head, mouth twitching. 

Chris repeats himself. 

Another head shake. 

He signs it while he says it. 

"One more time." 

Chris glares, catching on to Stiles' game. 

Stiles grins. 

'You're such a pain in the ass sometimes.' 

Stiles crawls across the floor and over Chris, puts his hands on Chris' thighs and smiles. 

"Yeah, but you liked it last night." 

Parts of Chris throb at the memory of exactly how much he liked it last night. 

Stiles kisses him syrupy-slow, like he's got the rest of his life to do just this, only this, as if he'd want to devote the entirety of his time alive to this single action. 

They end up shoving and kicking all of the pots and pans away, single-mindedly focused only on skin touching skin, lips touching lips, and bodies moving together. 

 

An hour later, a deputy shows up due to a noise complaint. 

 

Chris answers the door, holding his jeans up with one hand and a spoon covered in chocolate in the other. 

The deputy tells him to keep it down with a wink. 

 

From there, nothing changes, in that everything is always changing and nothing truly remains the same. People grow older, friends become closer and farther apart, the moon waxes and wanes, and the sun rises even after long, sleepless nights. There are few things that remain as they always were except–

Except there's a bottle on Chris' nightstand that contains a collection of hearing aides, all in various forms of broken and a silver locket on a silver chain hangs over Chris' heart holding the working pair. 

 

Everything changes in that nothing truly does. Chris still carries a P-Tek around at home like, to quote someone else, a projectile security blanket, the nematon is a constant source of Things That Want To Kill Everything, and a twin to Chris' locket hangs around a beautiful man's neck. Inside it is an unused silver bullet with a mark similar to a fleur-de-lis. The bullet is old and unused, roughly made as if the hands that pressed it were inexperienced with the art of bullet-making. 

 

And maybe–

Maybe it's not perfect. 

Maybe it's a lot of long nights and frustration. 

Maybe it's really actually very hard. 

But, well, it's worth it. 

If only for the horrified faces Scott makes when he accidentally catches what Chris and Stiles are signing to each other from across the room. 

 

It's far from perfect. Or easy. Or what anyone expects. 

 

That doesn't matter so much to Chris. Not when he's lying on the couch watching a documentary about Parrots, warm and half-asleep with an elbow in his side and a sleeping body draped over him and the side of the couch. 

Not when Stiles presses his lips to his neck and those long fingers against his chest to feel Chris laugh. 

It's hard. 

But no one ever said beginnings were easy. 

**Author's Note:**

> And I'd also like to point out that the majority of this was written before this current season and I had no idea about Parish's story arc.
> 
>  
> 
> This actually came about because of movie I watched a while ago. The Little Death. Look up a ten minute cut of it. Go to youtube and type: the little death video relay. Do it.You'll thank me.


End file.
